


Fire & Ice

by IAmANonnieMouse



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: Arthur's finger brushed the tip of a tulip petal, and the entire flower trembled, shriveled. It withered in seconds, petals crumpling on themselves, a thin layer of ice settling over the entire bloom.It was summer. Arthur was suddenly, violently cold.He shivered helplessly in the garden as his father stared at the frozen plant, completely encased in ice.Arthur will never forget that day.(Alternatively, a strange fantasy au idea I came up with that is somehow almost 3.9k words long)





	Fire & Ice

**Author's Note:**

> I don't quite recall how I came up with this idea--I think I was really cold one day, honestly--but I thought it would be an interesting Arthur/Eames thing. It started out as a vague idea I was toying with and then turned into almost 3.9k words, so oops?
> 
> I feel I've been saying this before a lot of my fics as of late, but: I am not completely content with how this has turned out, but at the same time I don't know what to do to it beyond this, so *shrugs* here it is. *covers eyes*

Arthur will never forget that day. It was early summer. The sun was bright, the air was warm. It almost feels like a dream, these days. A horrible dream.

“Arthur,” his father said, kneeling in their garden. “Arthur, come over here.”

Arthur could hear the gentle brook burbling nearby. He knelt at his father’s side.

“Look,” his father said. He reached out and rested his finger on the stem of the nearest flower. A small stream of water trickled down the plant and puddled at the roots, slowly absorbed by the earth. He looked at Arthur. “You try, son.”

Arthur shook his head.

“You have the water in you,” his father said. “I know you do.”

Arthur shook his head again.

“Come on,” his father said, gently. “Just try?”

Arthur reached out, finger extended. His hand was trembling.

“No need to be scared, sport,” his father told him. 

Arthur was very, very scared.

His finger brushed the tip of a tulip petal, and the entire flower trembled, shriveled. It withered in seconds, petals crumpling on themselves, a thin layer of ice settling over the entire bloom. 

It was summer. Arthur was suddenly, violently cold.

He shivered helplessly in the garden as his father stared at the frozen plant, completely encased in ice.

Arthur will never forget that day.

~+~+~

Arthur’s cold inside the warehouse. He’s wearing as many layers of clothes as he can get away with, since it’s May in Louisiana. The other members of his team keep giving him strange looks for wearing a three-piece suit to work every day, but Arthur is so damn cold he’s considering showing up to work in a ski jacket, and wouldn’t that be a sight?

It happens to him, sometimes. The cold seeps into his bones so much that he’s one sneeze away from a full-body shiver. He hates it.

“Here, darling.” Eames whips by, dropping a pair of gloves on top of Arthur’s desk. “Wouldn’t want your fingers to fall off.”

Arthur scowls. Eames has always been able to see right through him. But he’s right, that bastard; Arthur’s fingers have been getting frighteningly stiff. He pulls on the gloves and closes his eyes for a moment in relief. They’re lined with something amazingly soft, and Arthur can’t help but curl his fingers, relishing the sensation.

He opens his eyes again and watches Eames flit around the warehouse, careless and free. Eames has the wind in him. Arthur somehow, instinctively _knows_ , just like Eames inexplicably knows about Arthur.

Arthur wants so much to hate him.

“Gloves?” Gerry, the extractor, asks as she walks into the room.

“Arthur must protect his manicure,” Eames informs her, smirking playfully. “Haven’t you seen it?”

She laughs but lets the matter drop. Arthur catches Eames’ eye and nods, once.

Eames winks in response.

Arthur could easily hate him. But the gloves are already easing the stiffness out of his fingers, and he imagines he can feel the sharp chill slowly easing from his bones.

~+~+~

The chill gets worse as the job progresses, burrows its way deep in Arthur’s body until he’s too frozen to even shiver. Arthur wears Eames’ gloves every day. They’re the only things that keep his fingers moving.

They make it through the job without a problem. Arthur is wrapping up the PASIV, stubbornly forcing his muscles to cooperate, when Eames sidles over.

“Darling,” Eames says, “I have a wonderfully warm blanket on my couch just waiting for you.”

The others are long gone. Arthur glances at Eames sidelong, questioning. This is only their third job together.

“You look like you’re in rough shape,” Eames elaborates. “My flat’s right nearby. I can make you a cup of tea, you can try to warm up a bit.” He shrugs. “I thought it seemed nicer than hopping on a plane.”

It does. Arthur was already dreading the flight home before Eames came over to him. Long-distance flights are freezing to begin with. Arthur half-thinks he would get frostbite if he tried to fly right now.

Another bite of cold seeps into his body, forcing him to shudder.

“Alright,” he says, reaching clumsily for the PASIV.

Eames picks it up and wraps an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, the warmth barely penetrating his skin.

~+~+~

Eames’ flat is what Arthur had expected: cluttered and wild and messy, but undeniably a home. Arthur ignores the piles of junk as he heads straight for the enormous couch with a thick fleece blanket draped over its back.

Eames follows and wraps the blanket securely around Arthur, tucking him in. Arthur would protest, but he’s too cold to complain. 

“I’ll go put on the kettle.” Eames darts out of the room.

Slowly, the blanket starts to warm. Arthur’s body shivers uncontrollably. He closes his eyes and presses his nose into the fleece.

“Here, darling.”

Arthur opens his eyes and blearily focuses on the mug Eames is holding in front of him. “Oh,” he says. His body shudders again.

Eames places the mug on the table nearby. “We’ll let it cool a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, clutching the blankets closer.

Eames sits at the other end of the couch and watches him quietly.

“What?” Arthur asks. It comes out a bit sharper than he intended.

Eames sips his drink. “What’s it like?”

“What do you mean?”

Eames smiles softly. “The ice.”

Arthur clenches his jaw as another shiver racks his body. “It is how it is.”

Eames nods. “I hear you.” He puts down his mug. “The wind never wants to stop moving. I stay in one place too long, it goes batshit.” He shrugs. “Used to drive my mum crazy.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Arthur carefully untangles his hands from the blanket and reaches for his tea. The heat from the mug warms his hands.

Eames shrugs. “Because you’re the only other person I’ve met who’s like me. And because I think you’re as tired as I am, of hiding it all the time.” He looks over at Arthur and smiles, gently, carefully. “And I thought…” He shrugs again, lips curling. “I just thought.”

Arthur watches him. The fleece blanket has helped; he doesn’t feel like a block of ice anymore. His hands are almost warm from the cup of tea he’s holding. The shivers have stopped.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

Eames smiles, bright as the sun.

~+~+~

Arthur will never forget that day.

“Come on, son,” his father told him as they knelt in front of the frozen flower. “Let’s go inside.”

Arthur darted to his room to throw on a couple of his warmest sweatshirts. He could feel the cold in his very bones.

His mother’s voice echoed up the stairs. “He _what?_ ”

“Now, Janice,” his father said.

Arthur crept back downstairs and peered around the doorway.

“Don’t you ‘Janice’ me,” his mother sneered, batting his father’s hand away. “I told you this would happen. I told you.”

“Janice, nothing has happened.”

“Nothing? He’s an abomination,” she hissed. “A killer. A monster with ice in his veins instead of water or fire.”

Arthur pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirts. The cold had vanished. He was sweating now, burning up. His hair was sticking to his scalp.

_“Janice.”_

“I told you I didn’t want this,” she said. “I told you that if we had a child, it would be a monster.”

“He’s our son,” Arthur’s father said. 

“He’s not my son,” Arthur’s mother said. “That _thing_ is not my son.”

A wave of dizziness crashed over Arthur and he wavered, leaning heavily on his hand against the doorframe. 

The smell of smoke reached him.

“Arthur!” 

He opened his eyes. When had they closed? Something was beeping in the distance, loudly. He opened his eyes and saw his father standing over him, face pinched. 

“Hey, son,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Arthur blinked slowly. Hot. He was so hot. He fumbled for the hem of his sweatshirts. “Smoke,” he murmured. “I smell—”

“Arthur,” his father said. He coughed, doubled over, then straightened. “Arthur, I need you to get up for me, okay? Can you do that? Sit up for me?”

Arthur realized he was on the floor. He was so hot. “Mom doesn’t love me,” he breathed, throat dry.

“She does,” his father said. “She does, she’s just really scared, okay? Arthur? Open your eyes, son.”

Arthur opened his eyes again. “Are you hot, too?” he asked. “I’m so hot.”

Arthur’s father reached for him then hissed, eyes narrowing in pain. “Son, please,” he begged, voice cracking. “Get up. We need to get out of here.”

Arthur blinked sluggishly. “What’s that noise?”

“The smoke detector,” his father answered, voice thin. “We need to get out.”

“Out?” Arthur lolled his head to the side and saw nothing but bright flames, smoke. Heat. “Fire,” he said numbly. “The house is on fire.”

“Yeah, sport,” his father gasped, then coughed again. “Get up. Come on. I can’t lift you.”

Arthur pushed himself upright. His head spun. “The house is on fire,” he said again, looking around. Clarity hit him, and he gasped, jumping to his feet. The house was _on fire._

His father coughed, gasping for breath. “Go,” he wheezed. “Get out.” He struggled to his feet and collapsed to his knees.

Arthur wrapped his hands around his arm to try and pull him to his feet, and his father cried out in pain. Arthur let go, horrified. There were two burns on his father’s arms, shaped just like his own hands. 

Arthur held his hands in front of his face, whimpering.

“Go,” his father gasped. “Get out of here, son.”

A beam from the ceiling fell to the floor only feet away.

“Dad,” Arthur cried.

“Go!” His father waved his arm as he doubled over coughing. “Run, Arthur!”

Arthur ran. He tripped in the gardens, and the grass around his hands burst into flame. As he watched, the tulip he had frozen only hours before disintegrated to ash.

He leapt into the brook, the cool water a shock against his fevered skin. Steam hissed around him as his hands evaporated some of the water. He gasped, tears streaming down his face, and turned to look back.

Around him, everything burned.

~+~+~

Smoke. Arthur wakes to the smell of smoke. He jolts awake, falling out of bed, and clambers to his feet, taking in the room around him.

“Oh, my God,” he breathes. He runs into the adjoining bathroom and wets all the towels he can find, throwing them on top of the bed.

“Oi!” Eames splutters, dragging himself out from underneath them. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

Arthur leans back against the wall, gasping for breath, arms wrapped tightly around himself. He’s shivering, but he isn’t cold. His clothes now smell faintly of smoke.

“Arthur?” Eames asks, rubbing a hand over his face. He pauses, inhales loudly. “Is something burning?”

Arthur licks his dry lips. “I set the bed on fire,” he whispers, voice ragged. “Just a little.”

Eames looks at him. “Just a little?”

“I put it out.” Arthur nods unsteadily at the wet towels. “Sorry.”

Eames is silent for a long moment. “So you’re not just ice, then.”

Arthur shakes his head, breathing unevenly. “I should go,” he says. “I need to go.”

“Go?” Eames struggles out of bed. “At this time of night?”

“Thanks for the tea,” Arthur says, walking into the bathroom to splash his face with water. He shudders, remembering the brook. “And for the blanket,” he manages.

“Arthur,” Eames says. He’s standing in the doorway. “Arthur, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” He laughs, a harsh, broken sound. “I almost killed you in your sleep, that’s what’s wrong.” He pushes his hair off his forehead and forces Eames out of the way. “I need to go.”

“Oi, hold up, darling.” Eames grabs his arm and immediately lets go, wincing.

Arthur folds his arms around his body and looks away. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done this, I know better. I just…I just thought.”

He turns and walks out of the house. Eames doesn’t follow him.

~+~+~

He walks. He walks and walks and tells himself he isn’t running, he’s never running. He walks until the chill in the early morning air has frozen the fire coating his body, until he can force the flames deep inside himself and restore the layer of ice around it. He’s cold again; his fingers are frigid as he tucks them in his pockets. But it’s better than the alternative.

He’s a monster. An abomination. A measly human filled with fire and ice, two forces that would destroy each other, given the chance. One force that only knows how to destroy.

He knows better than to let his guard down, let his control slip.

He knows better.

~+~+~

He doesn’t see Eames for five months, when they both accept a job in Siberia. Arthur wears his fleece-lined suits to work and treasures the gloves Eames had given him at the last job.

It’s a relatively straightforward job, except for the fact that the mark, a retired museum curator, is militarized. 

They go under. The dream is set in the Hermitage. Arthur paces through the gilded hallways and leads the projections on quite a merry chase. Eames is working the mark on the other end of the building. They have plenty of time.

Except one of the projections goes a little crazy and sends a chandelier crashing to the floor. And their architect built it with real candles.

Arthur blinks, and the room bursts into flame.

“Fuck,” he gasps, staring, paralyzed. The projections have all fled, screaming about the fire. Arthur detachedly watches the flame lick across the floor and curl around his feet. He doesn’t burn. He can’t burn. 

He closes his eyes. He should do something. He should make sure the projections haven’t found Eames. He should—

“Son.”

Arthur’s eyes fly open. His father is curled up on the floor at his feet, reaching feebly towards him. And Arthur knows it’s just a projection, but he can’t help his gasp and the tears that overflow.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. The walls around them are creaking, groaning. It’s hot and smoky and everything Arthur remembers from that day.

“You left,” the projection of his father says, coughing. “You left me there to die.”

Arthur close his eyes and shakes his head. “You told me to go. You told me to _run.”_

“I’m dead because of you,” his father’s projection says, so matter-of-fact that it guts Arthur where he stands. “Your mother was right.”

“No,” Arthur breathes, a single tear tracking down his face. “No, you don’t mean that. You—”

“You’re a monster.”

“No.”

“An abomination.”

_“No.”_

“You—”

“Arthur!” Eames appears, striding through the flames and smoke, gun up and ready.

Arthur stares at him. “Eames?”

Eames takes in the room in one swift glances and aims his gun at Arthur. “Time to go, darling. See you topside.”

He fires. Arthur catches one last glimpse of his father just before the bullet reaches him.

~+~+~

Normally, Arthur doesn’t drink, too terrified of losing control of the fire inside of him. But normally he hasn’t listened to a projection of his father call him a monster, so he thinks he’s earned this moment of self-destructive indulgence.

Eames drops onto the barstool beside him. “Are you alright?”

“No,” he says honestly. He doesn’t bother asking how Eames has found him. He can barely bring himself to care.

Eames hums and orders a drink. “Want to talk about it?”

“What did my father tell you?” Arthur asks.

Eames hesitates. “Not much. I kicked myself out right after you.”

Arthur nods, rolling the words around his mouth. “Did he tell you I’m a monster?” he asks. “An abomination? A murderer?”

“Arthur,” Eames sighs.

“He’s right.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“How do you know?” Arthur turns to him, the alcohol lighting the fire in his veins. “You know jack shit about me.”

Eames looks him in the eye then slowly, deliberately takes the drink out of Arthur’s hand. “Come on, darling,” he says, standing. “I have a hotel room just waiting for you.”

“No,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “No, I know better.”

Eames puts an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, love. You’re in no state to be alone right now.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur spits, shoving him away. 

Eames stands to the side and watches him quietly, placidly. “You ready?” he asks after a moment.

Arthur sighs and closes his eyes.

~+~+~

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” Arthur slurs as Eames helps him out of his clothes. “I know better.”

“Alright, darling,” Eames says, carefully folding his waistcoat. “Bed’s this way.”

“I mean it.” Arthur staggers towards the bed. “I killed my parents. I almost killed you.”

Eames’ hands pause where they’re unlacing his shoes. “When did you almost kill me?”

Arthur flops back on the bed. “The fire,” he whispers. “I hate fire.” The ceiling is wavering above him. He forces his eyes closed.

He hears a rustle of fabric, then Eames’ warm scent is surrounding him. “Sleep, darling.” He kisses Arthur’s forehead. “I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”

Arthur’s eyelids flutter. “Eames,” he breathes, slowly sliding into sleep. “Eames, what’s it like?”

“What’s what like, darling?”

Arthur sighs. “What’s it like to be free? I’ve always wondered.”

He falls asleep before he can hear Eames’ response.

~+~+~

He wakes up freezing, with a hangover that could very easily kill him. He groans and forces himself to sit up to find something warm.

The fleece blanket from Eames’ couch is folded at the foot of the bed. A bottle of painkillers and a glass of water are on the nightstand. Arthur takes the pills and shuffles out of the room, cocooned in fleece, looking for Eames.

Eames is sitting on the couch, watching a Korean soap opera. He glances up as Arthur walks in.

“Ah, good morning, darling, welcome back to the land of the living.”

Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and flops onto the other end of the couch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. 

“What for?”

“For last night.” Arthur doesn’t remember everything, but he thinks he knows enough. “I was a dick.”

Eames snorts. “Only slightly more than usual, darling.” He catches Arthur’s eye, and the smile morphs into something more sincere. “You don’t have to apologize. You were understandably distressed.”

Arthur scoffs and deliberately tucks the blanket around his cold toes.

“Want me to warm you up a bit more?” Eames asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Arthur looks at him. “Are you seriously hitting on me right now?”

Eames shrugs. “No time like the present.”

Arthur can’t help but roll his eyes. “For so many reasons, no way.”

“Why not?”

“It would never work out.”

“I beg to differ, darling.”

Arthur shifts on the couch and faces him. “I could kill you in my sleep,” he says bluntly. 

“Arrogance doesn’t suit you, darling,” Eames says. “I think I could take you on in a fight.”

“Eames, I’m serious.”

“Darling.” Eames moves into Arthur’s space and wraps an arm around his shoulders, the heat from his body immediately seeping into the fleece blanket. “You’re not the only one with destructive elements living inside him.”

Arthur closes his eyes.

“You ever seen a tornado?” Eames asks.

“No,” Arthur says.

Eames hums. “They do a lot of damage in very little time.” He sighs and briefly presses his nose in Arthur’s hair. “I sent a tornado through my home town when I was a boy. Kid in school told me I was a good-for-nothing cheat, called my mum a whore. I didn’t take it too well.” He pauses again. “If you see a town that’s been hit by a tornado, you know, one street can be demolished and the next one over is untouched. Well, my town was totally destroyed. Completely. Like the tornado did a lap and circled back.”

Arthur gives in to temptation and presses his nose into Eames’ chest. Eames hums softly and leans in, brushing their cheeks together.

“You’re not the only dangerous person in this room, darling,” Eames breathes into his ear. “Why go it alone if you don’t have to, hm?”

In response, Arthur leans up and kisses him, a brief brush of lips.

He leans back and sees Eames’ eyes, pupils blown. “Fuck, come here,” he mutters and wraps a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck.

“Eames,” Arthur whispers into their kiss.

“No,” Eames says, pulling away to nibble on the edge of Arthur’s jaw. “No, darling, don’t overthink this. Please.”

Arthur tilts his head back to give Eames more access. “How is this going to work?” he asks, breathless.

“We’ll figure it out,” Eames says, licking a line up Arthur’s throat. “We’re the two best members of dreamshare, we’ll be fine.”

Arthur laughs, wrapping an arm around Eames.

“Fuck,” Eames laughs, bumping their noses together. “Your hands are fucking freezing.”

He clasps them between his own and blows on them, eyes glittering. Arthur smiles at him. “Idiot,” he says, but it comes out fond.

Eames meets his eye and straightens, placing his hands on either side of Arthur’s face. “Look at it this way, darling,” he says, abruptly serious. “I’ve been mad about you from the start. My fleece blanket has all but abandoned me to live with you as it is. And you won’t need to explain anything to me when you spontaneously decide to burn our sheets.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh.

“Now if you decide to burn my shirts,” Eames adds, grinning, “that’s another matter entirely.”

Arthur pulls him closer until their foreheads are pressed together. His hands, still clutched in Eames’, are no longer cold, and for the first time, he realizes he isn’t consciously forcing apart the fire and ice inside him. He inhales slowly, taking stock of his body, but nothing is frozen or singed, and Eames isn’t wincing in pain. Somehow, his body has settled into an equilibrium he didn’t think existed, and he can’t help but wonder what Eames has to do with it.

“Alright,” he says to Eames, fighting the smile curling his lips. “I promise not to burn any of your hideous shirts without warning you first.”

Eames chuckles and kisses the tip of his nose. “That’s all a man can ask for,” he says gravely before bursting into laughter.

He falls back on the couch and pulls Arthur on top of him, still mostly wrapped in the fleece blanket. Arthur settles on top of him, strangely content. He can feel Eames’ hand rubbing patterns on his back.

“Thank you,” he whispers, suddenly afraid to disturb this peace.

Eames kisses him. “You’re not a monster,” he says softly. “But if you are, then I’m a monster, too. And we should be monsters together, living free and wild for the rest of our lives.”

Arthur feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and he ducks his head, trying to hide under the fleece and against Eames’ chest.

“Okay, darling?” Eames asks, kissing the top of his head.

“Okay,” Arthur answers. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [Tumblr.](http://iamanonniemouse.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fire and Ice (The Smoke Gets in Your Eyes Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659931) by [Sibilant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant)




End file.
